I am who I am, and I resent being told that this is wrong. I am proud to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. There are people who think that this is a reason to attack me or my friends. I know people that choose to attack anyone who believes in God and Jesus Christ. I find it interesting that those who do this claim it is because "all Christians are hateful." They say that we all discriminate against this broad group or that broad group. I find it interesting that these people would discriminate against a large group of people to prove a point about discrimination.
What does this mean about how I believe? I know God, the Father, and Jesus Christ are real. I know Jesus died for my sins and suffered all that I have and will suffer. I know that he did so for each and every person who has and will grace this earth. He is not just the Savior of straight, white men. He is the Savior of all mankind. It hurts me when I hear people of any religious affiliation say otherwise.
I was not raised to judge people based on their race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, etc. I was, also, raised a bit naïve to the issues of those who are different may have had. It wasn't until I was working in call centers and faced head on with some of these issues that I began to understand some of these issues in even the smallest way.
I believe there is no real way for me to fully understand someone else's life or point of view. I can listen. I can try to relate. I cannot say that I know everything about them. No one can say they know everything and have felt everything about my life either.
I am the daughter of a mother who came out in the 90s. My mom confided in me when I was 13 before she fully came out and left my dad to live with her girlfriend. It took me many years after her death to realize that this may have been hard for her instead of seeing how hard it was for me. I will always live with the abandonment issues caused by her leaving. It was not easy being an almost 14 year old told that my mom was gone, my brother and sister knew where she was, but she would not tell me where she was because I was the most likely to tell my dad. These experiences shaped me in ways that I can't really explain.
My brother was my protector. At one time, he told me that if a dude was threatening me, I should go to him, but if it was a girl, I needed to have my sister protect me. I was seen as the weaker sibling because I was the "girly" one. I didn't take offense to this. It was just the dynamic we had.
The summer I turned 15, he proved that he would fight for me. A man was brought into our house to supposedly help my brother with his problems. We were expected to call him our brother and treat him as such. (At this point, my mom and her girlfriend were staying in a room in our basement with the understanding they were to be in separate twin beds.) One day, I thought I was the only one home when I woke up. I took a shower and went down the hall to my room in just a towel. Out of habit, I locked the bedroom door, and I am glad I did. The man staying in our home had seen me walk down the hall and followed me. He tried to get in my room. I was holding the doorknob hoping it wouldn't turn, pressed up against the door that was bending under his weight, and screaming for help. At this point, Anthony came home from wherever he had been. He heard the commotion and ran to find out what was going on. He ran down the hall, pulled the man off the door, threw him against the wall, and punched him. He was truly my hero in that moment. A few months later, he once again had the chance to prove he would protect me. I came home from school to only the man in question being there. He had not put the bed away into the couch that day, so it was right there as I walked into the door. He grabbed me and threw me against the bed, held my arms over my head with one hand and tried to do other things to me with the other hand as he licked my face. Once again, I was screaming and crying not knowing what I could do to stop what I knew this was leading to. Luckily, Anthony came home to from school to change for work at this time. He pulled him off of me and fought him once again. We never told our parents, but I will always see my brother fist and foremost as my protector.
Three years later was the worst year of my life. I lost both of these integral people in an instant. My mom had made some major changes in her life which included trying to heal our relationship the year before. We had been talking about me moving in with her and going to community college once I graduated high school. My bother had moved into his first apartment a few months prior to this event. I had declared that my senior year would be unforgettable. Little did I know, this would be true for completely different reasons than I had expected. August 29, 1996, I went to work in a costume my mom had made for me to make balloon animals for the customers. My mom stopped by to let me know she was leaving that night for her trip instead of the next day, and Anthony would be going with them. The next morning, I woke to my brother's dog whining and was annoyed. I said that I couldn't wait until they got back because I didn't want to have to deal with his dog that early in the morning. Later that day, my dad came to the school, took my sister and I out of class, and told us something that would change our lives forever. Our mom and brother were involved in a car accident. My mom's "roommate" had fallen asleep at the wheel. My brother was ejected, his neck broken in many places, he did not make it. Our mother had been crushed by the guardrail and had died on impact. In this one moment, as my sister and I were complaining about the annoying dog that missed her person, we had lost half of our family and didn't even know it yet. It did not matter that we no longer lived with them. It did not matter that our mom had spent the past four or five years trying to decide what she wanted her role to be in our family. It did not matter that our brother had abandoned our beliefs. They were gone, and it hurt. It still hurts.
Do not tell me that I do not understand real loss. Do not tell me I don't understand what it feels like for someone to overpower you, not knowing how to defend yourself. Do not tell me I have not seen the anguish of someone being forced into a box that did not fit them. I have experienced all of these things. They have shaped who I am and what I believe.
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